Look who's writing again!

I'm busy.  I've started my job, and I have homework and coursework and revision and a crush and many other things that are making my life rush past far to fast.
But, in the little bit of spare time I have got, I've managed to write this.  And... (this needs to be in small letters, just in case someone out there wants to jinx me for thinking it) And I'm quite proud of it.  It might not be the best thing I've ever written, but it's got a little something I like.  It's not autobiographical, except for the Dylan Thomas being amazing bit.  It's not current - it harks back to the 50's or 60's in my imagination.  
Would you like to read it? 
It's here, if you do.
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The Winter of My Content.

I remember when I was sixteen and we used to skive off physics and go down to the park to smoke roll-ups and flirt and drink flasks of tea.
Our physics teacher was new that September, and he had a phd – he made us call him Doctor. He had a little black beard and hairy hands, and was probably very clever. He was a terrible teacher though, and he never told the headmistress that two thirds of his class went missing every lesson. Looking back, I think he was just too scared of losing his job.
It was an especially cold Winter that year; it seemed to always be frosty or snowing. That’s why we brought the tea in flasks – to stop ourselves catching hypothermia. I wore two pairs of thick woollen tights for months, and my mum was always saying that if I was cold I should just wear a longer skirt. I think she’d forgotten what it was like to be a teenager.
It was during those stolen hours that I first heard Dylan Thomas, read to me by a tall, earnest boy called Mathew. I would lie on the read tartan rug he’s bring and eat apples while he’d sit above me and the recite the most beautiful poetry I’d ever heard. In between poems he’d smoke half a cigarette and give the rest to me, and I’d let him kiss me. I quite enjoyed the kissing, but that’s not what I had come for – much in the same way as Matthew enjoyed the poetry, but it wasn’t why he was sharing his smokes and apples with me.
Sometimes he’d ask me to meet him outside the fishbowl of our physics lessons, but I always refused. If I had discovered, for example, that at home he wore a cardigan I would never have been able to let him kiss me again. And I expect that he had found out that I had a stuffed teddy bear on my bed called Gregory, he wouldn’t have seen as the mysterious and alluring girl that he said he did.
So we muddled along in the cold Winter of my content, and when I dropped physics at A-Level, I rarely saw Matthew anymore except to smile at in the school corridors. My brief encounter with Matthew may not have been the great passion of my life, but Dylan Thomas certainly was.
----
 
Now I'm not someone who begs for comments, but I wouldn't mind a comment for this, if you liked it.  Or if you didn't.  I'm always dying for constructive critiscism.

In my other life.

I am a ballet dancer.  This girl who (in my mind) is me and isn't me is a wonderful, beautiful ballet dancer.  I am taller and I am gracefull and I am thin and I spend all of time looking elegant in leggings and pretty little ballet flats and hoodies.

I'm a bit obsessed with ballet - mainly because I was one of few girls who never did it when they were little.  Once I hit 10 I did my fair share of Modern Jazz and Tap, but by then it was too late for ballet.  So when we used to do our big show-case things at my old dance school, I used to stand in the wings and watch how amazing the ballet dancers looked. 

I've been to see quite a lot of ballet, and still find it transfixing (December 12th - The Nutcracker yay!), and I devour ballet books.  I think it's the elusive quality to that world that makes me want to find out as much as I can about it.  Granny Dan by Danielle Steele is a very good one - for the record.

There is something quite magical about watching ballet.  The dancers are so completely in control of themeselves and their bodies.  I envy that.  They look a little bit closer to perfect than normal human beings.
So when I grow up, and if I ever decide I want a child, I'm going to make them do ballet. 
Then they'll be just like the girls in my ballet books.
=]

This might just be the best news I'll hear all week.

David Tennant is playing one of the ghosts in The Catherine Tate Show 'Nan' Christmas Special.
Those two together is comedy gold.
Yah-hey!
AND
On Christmas Eve, David Tennant is doing the CeeBeebies bedtime hour.  He's narrating a story about a little bear that falls down an enchanted snow hole and discovers Santa's grotto!
*Collected Awwwww.....*


[By the way, I know a lot of my posts are becoming David Tennant/Doctor Who related, but it's only to be expected what with the upcoming Christmas Doctor Who...]

Blind Eyes Could Blaze Like Meteors...

I watched Doctor Who last night, and I went to bed shaking.
I was that scared.  I'm not even lying.
It wasn't the monster that made me so scared, even though they were very odd, it was The Doctor.  The Doctor not being The Doctor, the Doctor breaking all the rules and doing things that aren't right just because he can.  The Doctor thinking he has that power.  The Doctor talking about 'little humans'. 
Basically The Doctor going a little bit Master on us. 
And that wasn't right, and so, for once, I was releived when he got outsmarted.  When Adelaide shot herself,  I was so releived, because that showed he hadn't got absoloute power.  That he couldn't.
But then... at the end, when he realised he'd gone to far, and he thought his death was coming...
Jesus.  The Doctor scared?  The Doctor being faced with his own mortality? 
That freaked me too.  Freaked me so bad.
I mean, I'm a 16 year old, and if I was that affected by that, what if you were 6?  You tell a little boy or girl that this man is right, and he does the right thing and he's good, and then you show them that?  How much of that would they get?  Maybe I'm underestimating their powers of comprehension, but I think RTD forgot he was writing for a 7'0'Clock show.
And The Ood are back.  I hate the Ood, I had nightmares about them.  I know they are, essentially, good, but when they got possesed... Ugh. 
It was nigh-on perfectly written though.  Really exceptional, I mean, the beauty of it made my heart ache.  The scene with The Doctor walking away and listening to that destruction gave me shivers.  That bit with the 3 knocks literally made my heart stop.
And...
Wow.
David Tennant.  He was chilling.  He may be is the best actor I have ever seen.  The way he can change the mood in houses up and down the country, merely with his eyes.  Matt Smith has a helluva job on his hands.  I can't imagine anyone could produce a better preformance.  The horror of the 10th Doctor facing his mortality and being terrified was... sad.  It was as if everything that has happened to him was finally breaking him.  Like he was finally stopping running.
I can't wait for Christmas.

[Title courtesy of the genius that is Dylan Thomas.]

Lovers Who Turn Into Mothers Who Turn Into...?

I read an article in The Times this morning that made me feel angry, and I thought: I'll blog about it. This may be a bit of an incomprehensible rant, but I won't make a habit of it.

This teacher at an all-girls school said that girls should be taught that they can't have everything - everything being a career and children.
Leaving aside the point that MAYBE, just maybe not all women want children (I know, a reveloutionary thought), and maybe there ARE more things to life than getting a job and then getting married,  I was livid.
How DARE this woman put limitations on me?
How DARE she tell me what I can and can't do, merely because I have breasts?
How DARE she tell girls in her care that they have to pick between things that are considered a Basic Human Right?
This is where me and my mother disagree - she's a diehard 1950's housewife and I am a diehard feminist/suffragist.  But not in 'all-men-are-bastards-lets-kill-'em' way.  Sometimes (like this time) I'm all too patently aware that women's biggest enemy is other women.  And despite the fact that that is sad, it's expected.  I don't really beleive in the sisterhood. 

But I do believe in ME.

I bloody well can have everything, and I'll try my hardest to make every other I ever know girl feel the same way.

So Screw You.

I am using this blog as my post-it note...

These are the films that I want must see:

1) An Education.
    Because Carey Mulligan is perfection and I love the whole look of the film. 

2) Glorious 39
    Because Stephen Poliakoff is a genius, because I LOVE the clothes (infact, particularly the hat featured below.), because Juno Temple's in it, because David Tennant's in it and because it's on my A-Level history syllabus.  (In a vague way.)

3) Bright Star
    Because the guy in it is really handsome and because I think it looks beautiful, and because the picture below made me think of the Robert Frost poem, 'Miles to Go Before I Sleep.'

My Extreme Clumsiness.

I am horrifically clumsy.  At least twice a day I will stumble over and my best friend Alice will catch me and cry "You have weak ankles!"  I recently made a new friend, and the first time I tripped and skinned my knees (I do this regularly) and she was really shocked and concerned as the blood dribbled from my scrape, but me and Alice just laughed and carried on walking.
I do have weak ankles though, I've broken one twice and the other one once, and sprained them both badly.  In a way it's not a joke at all, it's paniful and they hurt and when I get old I'm going to get bad arthiritus.  But yesterday, I was walking down the stairs from my tutor and fell slap down the stairs and cracked my shin on the concrete.
Ow.
And when I say ow I mean explietive-yelling-trying-not-to-cry ow.  I heard it crack for God's sake.  But I didn't bother reporting it, because I'm always doing things like that.
Except, I sat in my lesson terrified that I was going to go faint or vomit because the pain was so bad.  By the end of the day I was limping, and it had swollen to a ridiculous size.  tHen, when I went to bed last night I could NOT stop shaking.  I felt all strange and out-of-place, as if someone had spun me around and dropped me someplace foreign.  When I woke up this morning I couldn't eat anything.  Mom thinks it's delayed shock or summit, and when she went down to the school to tell 'em I wasn't going in they said I had to go and fill out an 'accident report' as a matter of urgency on Monday.
Still. 
I get a day off school.
And a swollen shin.
And no homework.
But some catching up to do.
I'm going off to watch St. Trinians in a moment or two.

(I was going to post a picture of my injury, but then I realised that if I was reading a blog where someone posted a picture of their busted-up shin, I'd think they were pretty weird.)